The Trouble With Luck
by lingering nomad
Summary: A moment's reflection between Malcolm's boys. Set after the forewarning disaster that was Anders' recruitment.


**Topography:** "spoken dialogue," "_flashback dialogue,_" '_thoughts,_' _emphasis_

**A/N:** According to the Dragon Age Wiki, all that is known about Malcolm Hawke's death is that it happened in 9:27 Dragon, three years before the Blight. Events herein reflect my headcanon on the matter. Thanks to everyone who R&Red my previous fics and especially to Sassywolf23 for her kind words on 'Where The Heart Is.' This can be read on its own, but it does feature the same sword-toting, elf-loving force mage chronicled in my other DA2 stuff, so if you like this, go check those out too *wink, nudge*

~The Trouble With Luck~

"Where are you going?" his brother demanded, stepping into Wreath's path as he approached the door. The younger Hawke stood with arms crossed, challenge all but crackling off his skin.

Bluster. Carver's stock defence against fear.

Wreath sympathised, to be sure. Dread boiled like acid in his belly at the thought of last night, and what he'd dragged his little brother into. It wouldn't end with Carver, of course. If they were caught, it would have repercussions for everyonethat mattered, from the esteemed serah Tethras to Uncle Gamlen.

Nigh a dozen templars. Cut down by Hawke blades. On Chantry-bloody-grounds no less.

For as far back as his memories spanned, avoiding confrontations with the Order had been the spool around which their lives revolved. Even after his father was felled. Andraste knew, Wreath had done his damndest to keep his acrimony at bay and to honour the example set by the man who'd proven all of them wrong: a husband, a parent, a friend and protector – a _good_ man, who'd worked the land and loved the Maker and dared to deny when they claimed that he was _less_ for being a mage. Cut down like a dog, for the crime of refusing to be collared like one.

"…_outside the law; never above it,_" but one example of his father's wisdom.

Until the catastrophe of the previous night, all they'd ever done, was fight back. Never before had a Hawke thrown down the gauntlet. To suddenly be hurtled across that long-skirted line, in blighted Kirkwall of all places – City of Chains in a region named for the march to freedom – and at a perfect stranger's behest…Wreath likened the experience to skipping a stair in the dark.

And discovering that he'd canted over a cliff.

"If the 'shields come knocking on this door today, I'd rather they _don't_ find an apostate behind it," he snarked, attempting to deflect.

A year of indentured smuggling had required much discussion by way of glances, however, and the youth before him was fluent in his tells. "And where _will _they find you, Brother?" Carver refused to be swayed.

"Why?" Wreath countered, stepping in close. "So you can give them directions?" He was the one blustering now. There was little separating the brothers Hawke in terms of sheer brawn, but with Carver's stint in King Cailan's army, brief though it was, the younger was somewhat more studied in relying on his limbs in a brawl. With the Fade removed from the equation (for Wreath would sever his own hand before calling magic on kin) it was a coin toss as to which of them would stand as the victor.

Blessedly, though, it seemed that he was still alone in that realisation as his brother's gaze wavered. "You're going back there, aren't you? To that Abomination's clinic." Carver's tone managed to be at once resigned and accusatory, features set in an expression too grim for a nineteen-year-old's visage to bear. And yet, such was the full tally of his years, Wreath realised anew.

Nineteen. And barely that.

He stifled a sigh, '_I'm so sorry, Carve._'

Caught in the daily scrap for survival that their lives had become, it was easy to forget how young his brother actually was. When Wreathwas nineteen, their family had yet to be touched by death. They'd had their home in Lothering and the Blight was some ancient, abstract horror that didn't seem entirely real. What didn't kill you was supposed to make you stronger. Or so people said, anyway, but how much could a man truly stand to lose before there was nothing of him left?

Which brought him back to—

"Anders watched someone dear to him die twice over last night. Once by his own hand. He doesn't have anyone, and... I'm going to check on him, alright?"

Umbrage flashed in Carver's eyes at the mention of the name and after what'd happened, Wreath couldn't rightly blame him.

He would've had to be hewn from stone not to sympathise with the other apostate's motives. Every single Free Marcher knew how Kirkwall's Circle mages were treated. That did _not_ mean that he appreciated the tactic of turning his own bid for autonomy against him. And he certainly hadn't cared for the deadline.

Less than a day? To decide _and_ prepare?

Agreeing was madness, but the renegade healer had set his terms and their options were clear: either help to bring his friend to freedom and risk crossing swords with the Order – which was a matter of time to begin with – or brave the Deep Roads blind. _If_ they ever found a way in.

In short, they were left with no choice.

Or rather, _Wreath _was.

He'd sarked at Carver for referring to their 'templar-problem' as _his _when Bartrand turned them away, but his brother had the right of it. By the Pyre! The endless gnaw of guilt hadn't been there when he was one of three, along with Bethany and Father, but now…

The only shred of consistency in Wreath's life, seemed to be that he felt like the _one_ thing that stood between his family and the world. Whether as a bulwark or a prison fence, was decidedly more variable.

He'd snarled at Carver to stay behind; that it was _his _risk to take and _his _alone, but his brother refused, citing the harshly sound logic that if Wreath were captured, the Order would descend upon Gamlen's hovel before daybreak to apprehend his 'abettors.' After all, a friendly word to an apostate was guilt by association, and 'Mercy,' a mule's name in the City of Chains. And so, as they crept through the darkness, encroaching upon the looming edifice that was the Chantry at night – shrine of Andraste and sanctum of the Maker – Wreath had prayed, pleading to find this 'Karl Thekla' quickly and to let them leave unhindered; to _please, please_ not let it be trap.

In hindsight, he should've held his flaming peace.

Back in their uncle's Lowtown abode, Carver scoffed. He still stood with arms crossed, but the posture was less confrontational now. More frightened-child than angry-young-man. He glanced down, mouth contorting slightly as he chewed on the inside of his lip. "That mage – Karl? Is that how it always is when..." he trailed off, as if afraid that speaking of it aloud might cause it to occur '... _when_ _a mage is made Tranquil?_'

"I don't know," Wreath said honestly, "but I'd rather not find out."

His brother nodded, scowling at the floor. "You had better not," he said, glancing up to brave Wreath's gaze. "It would kill m—_Mother_ to see you like that."

For a moment, Wreath saw a wide-eyed ten-year-old, solemnly vowing to defend their mother and sister as his sixteen-year-old self saddled up, defying their father's direct orders as he rode out in search of him. Three days had passed since Malcolm Hawke charged off at a gallop, Fade-drawn fire and a squadron of sun shields blazing in his wake.

That time, they were lucky. And several thereafter, but the only sure thing about luck, was that eventually, it ran out.

Carver's eyes were the same shade of blue as Wreath's, one of few things they would always have in common. The look in them now, was haunted, brittle and…too reminiscent of the one in Mother's. Just over a year prior. In that forsaken clearing in the Korcari Wilds with the Blight hoard at their heels. When Wreath had all but dragged her away from the cooling corpse of her only daughter…

Feeling the tide of his grief rebel against the walls he'd erected to dam it, he hooked an arm around the neck of his father's other son and pressed a hard kiss to his brow. "You should worry about yourself a little more, Carve. Aveline's right about the likes of Bonny Lem. I know he talks sovereigns, but no one knows a single sword who's made a round trip from one of his ventures."

Carver shoved him off. "How do _you_ know about that?!"

Smiling wryly, Wreath tapped two fingers against his temple as he reached for the door. "Mage remember," he deadpanned, "I have eyes in the Fade."

Carver's brows descended in a way that said he couldn't tell if it was a bluff or not, but he'd be damned before he'd stoop so low as to ask.

It was just as well.

They'd all had the ground pulled out from under them, and Carver especially had yet to stop falling. One of few things the younger Hawke still clung to – however grudgingly – was the notion that his elder brother had a semblance of an idea how to navigate the storm they were caught in.

And who knew?

Perhaps Wreath's luck would hold. And no one, Carver included, would ever have to find out the truth.


End file.
